


Sing for Absolution

by tarie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarie/pseuds/tarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after the war, everyone presumes Harry to be dead - everyone but Ron, who can't seem to find what he's looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing for Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the Muse song of the same name

_"Go on, then. You might find what you're looking for."_

That's what she'd said. He hadn't believed her then and he doesn't believe her now. 

Ron didn't believe Hermione, but he felt compelled somehow to find the little church she'd mentioned. He'd felt compelled then, but now all he feels is freezing, soaking wet, and annoyed that he can't perform a simple sodding charm to repel the rain pounding against him or warm himself up for fear a passing Muggle might see him. 

He should've stayed home, taken care of some paperwork, avoided the attempts of Ginny or Neville or whoever else was on the 'help Ron get over Harry's disappearance committee' to coax him to come out for a pint tonight, and listened to the Cannons on the Wireless for a bit before turning in. But no, he couldn't just do what he's done every single night for nearly two years since Voldemort was defeated and Harry disappeared. 

Harry had disappeared. He hadn't been killed, Ron was sure of that. Had anything happened to Harry, Ron would have known. He'd've felt it. Hermione had agreed with Ron for many months after that fateful day. The Ministry hadn't found Harry's body or wand, but they had found Voldemort or, rather, pieces of him strewn about the countryside for meters and meters. 

However, on the one-year anniversary of Harry's disappearance, Hermione had decided that he was dead and they ought to move on. Ron hadn't spoken to her for a month after she'd said as much to him. Eventually they found themselves on speaking terms again and avoided the topic of Harry's fate at all costs. Everyone was worried about Ron, according to things Hermione'd said to him after they had patched things up, sweeping that particular row under the proverbial rug. Ginny, Neville, the twins.... All sorts of people owled him, took the floo in unexpectedly for a visit, and tried to coddle him, none of which he appreciated too much. It wasn't as though he was fucking daft or nutters. He just had the connection he'd always had with Harry and his gut to go by, and those things told him Harry was out there somewhere.

Lately Ron found his convictions about Harry's fate wavering. Harry's birthday and holidays were hard; he usually withdrew into his own little world for days after. But the two year anniversary was fast approaching and Ron was tired. It was hard to focus on work, on life, on everything, and nothing his mum or Hermione said made him feel any stronger. 

Hermione was even more persistent than his mum, which was damned near impossible, but Hermione had always found a way to be the best at everything. The last week or so she'd quieted down on the subject of letting things go, which Ron knew really meant Admitting Harry Died, in favour of talking about religion and God. Ron didn't know much about God other than that he's the Man Upstairs and it's bad to take His name in vain, but Hermione hadn't seemed to mind that he's pants on the topic of God and beliefs and such. She'd gotten it in her head that Ron needed to explore this God chap, learn more about him, and just immerse himself in all things religious. Personally, Ron thought Hermione might've had a bad accident in the Religion aisle of that Muggle bookshop she liked to frequent in Soho, but he knew better than to say so. 

That morning she told him about a quaint little stone church and how she thought he might like to go there, to just breathe everything in, but he'd balked. He would feel immensely out of place in a church. For one thing, it's for _Muggles_ and, for another, he wouldn't have the faintest idea of what was proper and what wasn't proper to do there. Hermione had said that it didn't matter whether he was proper or not because God loves everyone, to which he replied, "Huh." That earned him an eye roll, which had been followed by a pat on the hand, concerned look, and the following advice: "Go on, then. You might find what you're looking for."

He hadn't believed her then and he doesn't believe her now, but for some damned reason or another he's nearly at the church she'd blathered on about. It's raining and cold and he can't use his magic because Muggles in automobiles and lorries keep passing him by. So Ron tries to ignore the chattering of his teeth and presses onward, wondering why he's doing this to himself to begin with.

Upon finally reaching the small stone church at the end of the lane, Ron wonders if the sodding thing is closed. There aren't any vehicles parked outside and the entryway is quite empty. Thinking that Muggle jackets are crap at protection in comparison to wizarding cloaks, Ron peels Charlie's old corduroy jacket off and places it on the coat rack. A puddle quickly forms on the floor beneath it. Ron winces and pushes on the heavy double doors that lead to the inside of the church. It's warm inside, with candles on the altar up front glowing brightly, and stained glass windows lining the walls with their bright colours. Exhausted from his battle with the elements, Ron sinks down into a pew in the back. In the corner opposite him, Ron spies two booth-looking things side-by-side with curtains drawn. As there isn't anyone else around him, Ron gets up and moves down the length of the pew so he can get a good look at the booths. Under the curtain on each booth he can see a set of legs. There're people in there, and it takes him a moment to remember everything Hermione's told him about churches to work out what's going on. _Confession_. Yes, that's what must be going on. While he can't hear what the people in there are saying (he rather wishes he had a set of the twins' Extendable Ears right about now), Ron is dead curious all the same. What do people tell their priests? He doesn't have a bloody clue as to what he'd tell one.

From inside one of the confession thingys ( _"Confessionals,"_ he hears Hermione's voice admonish.) someone coughs, so he turns away. The candles on the front altar flicker and dance and it's oddly enchanting. So oddly enchanting that he doesn't notice the crotchety old woman come out of the confessional until she's standing beside him, glaring down at him. 

"That's my pew," she says and Ron nearly gags from the overpowering cabbage smell of her breath.

"Funny," he says, recovering. "I thought it belonged to the church."

The old woman glowers, raising her walking stick in such a threatening manner that Ron stands up quickly to get out of her range. At least, he tried. As soon as he jumped to his feet, his shins bashed against something _hard_ , causing him to fall back onto the pew with a thump. "Bloo-" No, that's a curse and he's in the house of God. "Bli-" Nope, still a curse. Still in His house. "OW!" Better. "OW!" he bellows again, leaning over to rub at his shins. He hears the old woman cackle and her stick tap against the floor as she walks away, but he's too busy staring the bloody thing that'd ATTACKED HIS SHINS to pay her any more mind. A kneeler. That's what it is. Ruddy stupid THING. Ron kicks at it, not caring if it's for sacred purposes or some shite. It's in an inconvenient place. How many other people who come to this church to worship leave with BRUISED BITS from inconveniently located kneelers? Why couldn't they be at eye-level or something? 

After the sharp sting of pain lessens a little in his shins, Ron pushes back a damp shock of ginger hair that's been plastered to his forehead since before he even stepped inside the church, then tries to remember why exactly he's here. Oh, right. Hermione said he would find what he was looking for here, but Ron still isn't sure what she'd _meant_ by that. Ron isn't looking for God. At least, he doesn't think he is. He wouldn't know what to say to him if he happened to find him, nor did Ron know what he'd do with him. What does one do with God once they've found him? Have him over for a cuppa and ladyfingers? Pasties? Perhaps some cockroach clusters? 

With a confused sort of heaviness settling in his chest, Ron slumps back against the pew, closing his eyes. It does feel nice here, he'll give Hermione that. It's so quiet and has this air of benevolence or something about it. Ron almost feels at peace, which isn't something he's felt in yonks. Exhaling slowly, Ron's head lolls to the side and he finds himself looking straight ahead at those confessional booths again. Interested, he sits up and takes another glance round the room. No one else is there, save for him and the priest on the occupied side of the confessionals.

_Might as well_ , Ron shrugs, rising to his feet. In a few short strides he's at the booth, hand whisking back the curtain to reveal the inside.

He stops.

Can he really do this? Moreover, _should_ he really do this? 

Maybe he'll find whatever it is Hermione thinks he's looking for in here.

_Yeah_ , he decides. He can do this. He should do this. If he doesn't, he'll always wonder why the hell he hadn't.

Resolve setting in, Ron squares his shoulders and enters the booth, closing the curtain behind him. 

Now that he's actually inside the thing, panic sets in. 

"Er..."

He looks over at the screen and can just make out the profile of the priest on the other side. "Hi," he says lamely, fidgeting. There's another one of those ruddy kneelers inside the booth, and since Ron doesn't know what else to do, he unfolds it and falls down on top of it, grunting as his knees hit the wood and barely-there padding.

"Hello, my child," says the voice on the other side of the screen, and Ron's head turns sharply toward it.

"Hullo," he says stupidly, squinting at the screen. He wishes he could see this priest person so he can see who he's talking to, look into the priest's eyes when he tells him how he doesn't know why he's here or what Hermione thinks he's looking for.

The priest clears his throat and Ron gapes a little, then shakes his head in an attempt to clear it. _Lots of people sound the sodding same when they cough, mate,_ he tells himself, then wracks his brain for other things Hermione had told him about confessionals and confessions. 

Right, so, he's supposed to make some sign. He remembers Hermione mentioning something about that, so he waves his hands vaguely in the air this way and that, feeling pretty foolish. The priest is silent and Ron feels more and more like an ass as each minute passes until he recalls something else he ought to do. "Um, okay. Bless me Father-- well, bless me Priest. Vicar. Godly person? 'Cos you're not my dad, so... Right. Bless me, sir, 'cos I've sinned. It's been a bloody long time since-- er, sorry! It's been a long time since my last confession, since technically this is my _first_ and I--"

"Please leave," the voice on the other side interrupts, and Ron blinks.

"What?"

"Please. Leave."

Ron's brow furrows in confusion. He stands, using the side of his foot to kick up the kneeler, then leans in toward the screen. His nose presses against the tin lattice, but he cannot really see the priest's face on account of the dim light. 

"Am I doing it wrong?" he asks awkwardly.

There is a long silence, and then: "No. No, you're not doing it wrong. Why do you always assume you're wrong?"

In that moment, Ron knows. He _knows_.

Heart hammering in his chest, every last inch of his insides coiled so tightly together that it aches, Ron barrels out of his side of the confessional and yanks back the curtain on the other side so quickly that he nearly tears the entire rod out of the booth.

He can barely believe it, but inside that priest's confessional, wearing black trousers, smart black shirt, black blazer, and a stiff white collar is Harry.

"Bloody hell," Ron breathes, momentarily forgetting that Bloody Hell is exactly where he'll go for saying such things in the House of God. " _Harry_." Something inside him swells and Ron feels himself smile so broadly it's a wonder his face doesn't crack.

"Ron." Harry's back is pressed against the corner of the confessional, like he's got no place else to run or hide, and this confuses Ron.

Worrying his lower lip, Ron takes a moment to close the curtains before turning back to him.

"What're you _doing_ here?" Ron blurts. It isn't the only question he has for his best mate, but currently it is the most pressing one.

"I could ask you the same," Harry says faintly, and Ron does not like the look in his eyes one ruddy bit.

"What's that mean?" he asks, not giving a damn if his tone is rough. Something isn't right here and Ron can't make sense of that. This should be _good_. Everyone save for Ron has believed Harry to be dead for almost two years but he isn't and Ron's here to... Here to do what, exactly?

"It means what it means," Harry says slowly, pushing his glasses up.

Ron gapes at him. It's entirely coincidence that Ron found him here (all right, it probably isn't, as it's now becoming clear to Ron that Hermione must've found out about Harry a few weeks ago, but still...) and Harry's implying that he's here with ulterior motives? "What happened to you?" he asks, not feeling so much at peace any longer.

"I've found my calling," Harry says simply, and Ron calls bullshit. Seeing red and wanting nothing more than to shake the sense back into Harry, Ron calls bullshit.

"What, your Saving People Thing? Is that what this is about?" Harry blanches and Ron feels more than a little vindicated. "So that's what this is about, then?"

"I don't save people, Ron. He saves people." Harry's eyes roll heavenward while Ron's just roll. That one vein in Harry's forehead that always throbbed whenever he was cross begins to pulse, giving Ron cause to smile a bit smugly.

"That's utter bollocks and you know it. I dunno what you're really doing here, Harry, or why, but you've to-- Hermione and I..." Ron's voice trails off and he stares at Harry. Harry doesn't look much different than he had the last time Ron'd seen him, although the scar on his forehead is a bit faded, which Ron finds odd, and his hair's longer, shaggier. Damn, but Ron has missed him. Terribly. " _I_ miss you, mate," he whispers, reaching out to clap a hand on Harry's shoulder.

Harry's lips tremble for the briefest of moments and then he's all business again. "You're asking me to give up my faith," he says. The way he says 'faith' makes Ron think Harry doesn't even know what the hell that is, but Ron doesn't point it out.

"I'm asking you not to give up on _me_ ," Ron retorts, digging his fingers into Harry.

Harry pushes off the wall just then. A shiver races up and down Ron's spine from the way Harry's staring at him. "I've never done that," Harry says matter-of-factly, breaking the nearly overbearing silence that had fallen between them in the booth. "I'll never do that."

"Convince me," Ron says stubbornly. Harry flinches, obviously hurt, but Ron doesn't give a toss. _He's_ hurt and confused and a thousand other things beside, and he'll be damned if they aren't going to talk about all of this here and now, whether they're in a church, Azkaban, or on the sodding moon.

"I..." Harry's voice croaks and trails off. Ron can see it in Harry's face that he's struggling with something, and the big childish part of Ron is _glad_. Glad glad _glad_. The past two years without Harry's been horrid and he's not going to just leave Harry here behind without a fight.

"You what?" Ron asks, really sodding confused by everything, especially by the whole Harry-taking-off-his-collar thing. He watches, transfixed, as the stiff paper tumbles over top itself on the way to the floor, nearly in slow sodding motion. There's a faint 'ticker ticker' as it hits the floor and settles, and then a loud 'oof' as Ron finds himself being slammed against the side of the confessional, hands that had once been calloused from Quidditch and broom riding now softened by holy water and Holy Communion popping off buttons and peeling wet fabric off Ron's skin.

There's a wet warmth moving across his chest and then he can feel Harry's mouth covering his nipple, the tip of Harry's tongue flicking at it, followed by teeth that nip and tug, and Ron gasps. It's been so very long since he's been touched like this, touched by Harry, and it-- it--

"Nnnnghhhhh," Ron warbles as Harry proceeds to lick and suck, fingers twisting and tweaking the other. Then he switches hand with mouth and Ron thanks Hermione for sending him here and God for these little confessional booths. Smart things, they are.

Ron's hips rock forward as Harry mouths a hot trail down the centre of his chest and over his belly, fingers hooking on the waistband of Ron's trousers.

"Harry," Ron whispers hoarsely, head all spinny and cock suddenly very interested in what's going on, straining against pants and trousers. His breathing is fast, uneven, and he's quite sure it's only going to get more intense. Things always had between the two of them.

"Don't," Harry says, swirling his tongue around Ron's navel once before dipping it in, flicking.

"Ohhhh, fuuu- _Father_."

While Ron is very much caught up in how his own body feels, he is aware of how Harry feels against him, and he doesn't miss the way Harry tenses up at that. He tenses up and Ron's afraid he's buggered it up, that Harry's going to stop, but he doesn't.

Harry keeps going, unbuttoning and unzipping Ron's fly, mouthing across the front of his pants, the only thing separating Harry's mouth from Ron's cock being a thin layer of fabric.

The fingers Harry'd had hooked in the waistband of his trousers move down to his shorts, pulling them down over his hips, pushing them into a pool of fabric about his ankles. Breathing in through his nose, Ron watches as Harry settles on his knees, staring at Ron's erect cock like he's not seen it before, which is more than a little pear-shaped because Harry's done more than just see it in the days and weeks before the final meeting with Voldemort.

One of Harry's hands reaches out to cup Ron's balls in one palm, rolling them for a moment. Ron is just getting used to the fucking fabulous sensation when Harry takes them in his mouth, making Ron's hips buck, his hands reach out to fist in Harry's hair, and a low moan to sound. Harry isn't just sucking, he's licking as well and _fuck_ he can feel something press against that brilliant space between his balls and pucker. Ron feels synapses firing like mad in his brain, tension and fire and brimstone and the heat of hell pooling low in his belly, and he doesn't even try to muffle his cries. Unexpectedly there is a hand on his hip, firmly pressing him back against the dividing wall again, and Ron's head bounces off the tin lattice. He barely even notices, though, because Harry's brushing his lips along the insides of his thighs now.

Ron can't take it anymore. It's too much, not enough, everything, and all of it at once and he _needs_.

"Please," he gasps, and Harry Saves him. Harry touches his tongue to the tip of Ron's cock. Ron moans and lifts his hips, his cock bumping against Harry's lips. He answers the nudge with another long lick, his tongue tracing round the head before laying his hands on Ron's thighs to push them farther apart, taking Ron fully in his mouth. 

"Guhhhhhh," Ron keens, arching and writhing and thrusting up into Harry's mouth. Harry has quite the wicked mouth for a priest, which isn't completely a surprise because Ron remembers how it had been once, only it's better now because this means so much more. Tongue strokes and traces and swirls while teeth graze and nip, and Ron's hands clench tighter and tighter, eliciting a cry from Harry. The cry reverberates around his cock, making everything that much more brilliant, and Ron chokesmoanssobs, unable to hold back anymore. He drives his hips up, fucking Harry's mouth, pushing and pushing until he can feel the muscles at the back of Harry's throat open and give way, and he's hitting the back of his throat and Ron thinks he might die in this little booth.

He thinks he might die, especially when Harry's hands are squeezing his balls again hard. Ron knows he's dying when Harry releases his balls to scrape his nails along the perineum. He thrashes and cries, emptying himself down Harry's throat. When he stills, Harry stands, pressing his forehead against the tin lattice next to Ron's head, his body covering Ron's.

Although he's quite spent, Ron can smell himself on Harry, see a dribble of his come at the side of Harry's mouth. Harry's breathing is laboured beside him, and he's quiet. Too damned quiet. Ron wonders if he didn't just push him too hard.

"Have faith," he says quietly, the words sounding lame and crap to his own ears, but he isn't sure what to say, not when Harry's dressed like a priest right next to him and they're in a confessional booth in Harry's church.

"I do," Harry returns hoarsely.

"Then...worship," Ron says, and it's the fucking daftest thing he's said in a long time.

Harry turns his head in toward Ron's, glasses all askew and fogged. "Okay," he says in a low voice.

Ron blinks, confused.

The confusion lifts when Harry's cheek is pressed to his and Harry's rubbing his cock against Ron's leg, rutting and thrusting and moaning.

It doesn't take long before Harry is just as spent as Ron, and they sink to the floor of the confessional, knees up to their chests, the kneeler digging in Ron's back.

"You really want to stay here?" Ron asks, staring at the wet spot spreading out on the front of Harry's trousers.

"I'm good at this, Ron," Harry answers, and Ron can see how important it is to Harry. He'd been right. This was about Harry's Saving People Thing.

Ron didn't like it when they were growing up, no more than he likes it now, but, at the same time, it's part of what makes Harry _Harry_.

"Yeah, I reckon you are," Ron says, and he means it.

"I think," Harry says slowly, ducking his head, but not before Ron catches the colouring of his cheeks, "I'd be even better if I had someone to save me."

Ron's eyes round, then he grins. "Yeah. Yeah." He's pretty sure he just found what he'd been looking for.


End file.
